Burning Up
by LibertyBelleAnne
Summary: Tully becomes disoriented after being wounded in an ambush. Takes place after the David and Goliath raid. For Whumptober 2019 #3 Delirium


**Disclaimer: I don't own any rats or jeeps.**

**A/N: For Whumptober 2019 #3 ****Delirium**

**Burning Up**

He was burning up. His skin felt burnt and sensitive. His arm was on fire. His throat was as dry as the desert. He needed water. He knew if you run out of water in the desert, then you're dead. But he felt too miserable to be dead. Unless he was in hell, that is. Which with the feeling of burning alive made a sick kind of sense.

He remembered an explosion and burning jeeps. After that, it got hazy, like trying to see through the thick, black smoke. There was something in the smoke. Something that was coming for him. Something he was trying to escape.

He jerked awake. His eyes burned against the afternoon sun. Squeezing his eyes shut, he could feel the vibrations of moving vehicle. One that he wasn't driving. He always drove. He heard voices; someone was trying to talk to him. But he couldn't understand them. Someone had poked a hot branding iron into his brain.

He wasn't in his jeep, he knew how his jeep handled. His jeep had burned up, just like he was doing now. He wasn't in a jeep or an American vehicle at all. He was in a German staff car. He fought against the hands touching his burning skin. He'd been captured.

He was thirsty. He swallowed hard against the dryness. He had to have some water. He tried to remember the German word for water. He wanted a drink but then it hit him: something was wrong with the water; it was poisoned.

He felt a canteen push against his lips. They were trying to poison him! He struggled to get his good arm to cooperate enough to push the canteen away. The careful movement still sending flames throughout his bad arm.

He mumbled, "Don't wanna get my head blown off," Knowing it was the consequence of drinking bad water. But maybe it was better than being set aflame.

He felt the car come to a stop. He knew it was the end of the line. He was surrounded by the enemy. There is no possible way out. It was no good; he would burn into nothing. He was alone.

He squinted his eyes open to look around. Where were the others? Where was Hitch and the Sarge and Doc? He remembered them being there. They picked him up when he fell, pulled him along when he wanted to give up, and gave him water...water when they didn't drink any. They gave it all to him. If they weren't here with him, they must be gone. He didn't save them.

He fumbled for his knife. He unsheathed it with an anguished cry and lunged at the German sitting next to him. If he was gonna burn in hell for his failure, he was going to take someone with him.

He writhed against the hot sand as someone held him down. Someone else came and pried his weapon from his resisting fingers. His steaming eyes struggled to focus. The blurry faces above him could be his team. But what if they weren't? What if they really were gone? What if he was truly alone? Alone, at the mercy of the enemy.

He lay panting and trembling. He could hear them talking, but his brain refused to translate their words into anything intelligible. He shook his head against the ground, trying to clear it. He had to know. One way or the other, he had to know.

He dazedly watched, almost disconnected from his own body, as a dark-haired blob helped him sit up. He blinked owlishly as a finger passed in front of his unfocused eyes. He felt someone rub a hand through his hair to dislodge loose sand and check for injury.

He closed his eyes in content; he was among friends. He remembered his Sergeant doing this not too long ago and then giving him a matchstick. They were on their way home. They were safe. They had water. They had transportation. He had saved his buddies' lives, with a slingshot.

"Tully!" He finally registered Sarge's call from above him, "You're safe. We're back behind our lines."

"Drink," Then the Doc came into focus in front of him as he brought a canteen to his lips, "It's safe."

He looked around, finally seeing. His buddy, Hitch, turned from keeping watch to meet his eyes with a smile. "Were almost back to base."

He closed his eyes in relief. Only to open them again when someone nudged him.

"Stay awake," The Doc ordered before turning to Troy, "He has a concussion, it seems."

He felt his C.O.'s concerned eyes on him "Is that why he's so out of it?"

"He's also running a fever. It caused a case of delirium. I think his arm is becoming infected," Moffitt sighed, "Though, the dehydration certainly didn't help matters."

He felt them grab under his arms and carefully pull him up. They then led him to sit in the back seat, "Come on, Tully. Back in the car."

He figured his brain was more scrambled than anyone thought or they'd, in fact, done this all before. As Troy ruffled his hair once again, he felt the cool hand linger on his overheated forehead. There was no matchstick this time as he hunkered down, trying to find a comfortable spot. His gunman handed him another canteen, which his shaky hand took. He felt Hitch smoothly ease the German beast back towards their base.

He grinned softly to himself; he saved his friends with a slingshot. He figured the Rat Patrol would always figure out a way to save each other. They'd always pick him up when he fell, wouldn't let him ever give up and gave him water when he was burning up.


End file.
